


Boxed in

by Hermit9



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cooking, Dean OCD Tendendies, Destiel if you squint - Freeform, Emotionally Hurt Dean, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gen, POV Dean Winchester, fandomwritingchallenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9795218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: Coda for 12x09 “First Blood”





	

**Author's Note:**

> fandomwritingchallenge  
> Month : February 2017 (Food and Drink)  
> {PROMPT} - Burger

The door of the bunker was heavy and metal. It was made for defensive purposes, should something be able to breach the wards, or against human encounters. All Dean wished was that it wouldn’t clang so much when it closed. Sam, Mom and Cas had been in and out of the bunker all day, and every single time that door clanged shut and Dean would flinch and sweat. Conditioned stress response. Even if he knew why he did it, it didn’t make it any less of a pain in the ass.

The first thing he’d done upon getting home was crash and sleep the sleep of the dead. He reveled in a bed that was soft and fit all of him at once, with sheets that didn’t smell like two months worth of his own sweat. He drew great joy from having a lamp that would obey his command to shine and be dim. Glorious accommodations. If only the voice at the back of his brain would stop whispering about how he’d traded a concrete box for one only nominally bigger. 

Once he’d slept his fill (too long) he moved to the second order of business. Fixing the kitchen. They’d been gone a long time and between Cas’ lack of need to eat and Mary’s avoidance of cooking, if she could help it at all, meant the kitchen was a disaster zone. Sam’s rabbit food had turned into slimy piles of unidentifiable goo and the meat, well... let’s just say that if he hadn’t spent over six weeks with an open toilet and not enough water pressure, his sense of smell might have hated him more. As it stood, it took him most of the day to clean everything, wiping down the fridge with diluted bleach, rinsing it, and then again with a baking soda scrub. He considered going for the bleach again, but that was probably just falling into OCD tics at that point. He let it go. 

Dean had been taking an inventory of all the dried goods and wiping down the shelves and cupboards when Sam showed up, cabin-fevered and restless. He just stood in the doorway and shuffled from foot to foot, clearly understanding without speaking that Dean was reclaiming his space and Sam didn’t want to intrude on that. Dean knew Sam had been out for a run or two already, he’d heard the clang of the door and the groaning of the shower pipes. He’d rolled his eyes and given the moose a shopping list to give him another reason to go and do something outside. Buying peace along with peanut butter and milk.

Sam had dropped the supplies and gone out again, probably just sunbathing at this point. Mom had received a call from her hunter contacts - because apparently that was a thing Mom had now - and left as well. At least the goddamn door might stop slamming if everyone left. As soon as he was done with the kitchen he was going to look into those hydraulic or compressed air “soft close” systems. And maybe some kind of carpet for the stairs so that they would stop making so much ruckus when people went up and down. 

When the kitchen was finally clean and reorganized his stomach protested loudly. Apparently half a day of cleaning was enough to work up an appetite. Part of Dean was glad. He knew the ‘chow time’ at Site 94 was kept off schedule on purpose, like the light was kept on. Sensory deprivation would have made time perception hard enough, but they had wanted to cause maximum anguish. Fuckers. Nothing a good homemade signature burger couldn’t fix.

An hour later Dean was morosely scratching the label off a half-drunk beer bottle, though he had not really tasted it. The floor was making his ass numb but the space between the counter and the island made him feel safe and he didn’t want to move. It’s where he had retreated with pictures of a mother he needed to re-learn everything about. Maybe he should mark it, ‘here be Dean Winchester’s retreat in the face of failure’. There had been more beer then, though Dean was debating finding a bottle of whiskey. Not because he wanted to get drunk, or wanted to get the fucking shakes in his hands again. Just because he wanted his brain to shut up and the emotions to go away for a moment, a few hours, maybe a night. He laughed mirthlessly, Sam was right, he needed better coping mechanisms. An idle thought flitted by and he considered for a second if blowing Cas would be better or worse as a long-term approach, then he shoved it down with a gulp of lukewarm beer. 

Something settled in the sink with a metallic clatter and Dean flinched again, cursing under his breath. He needed to clean this mess up, again. And if that wasn’t the best metaphor for his life he didn’t know what was…When he opened his eyes there was a slightly crumbled brown take-out paper bag in front of him. He frowned at it for a second, before looking around, finally finding Cas’ bigger than the world, worry-filled eyes. The angel broke eye contact first, and something deep in Dean hurt for that, it was too like the Purgatory catastrophe. 

“Hey Cas. Didn’t hear you walk in.”

“I can be very quiet.” Cas’ tone was even, but Dean knew there was a smile in there. Cas sat next to him, at regulation personal space distance, so they wouldn’t have to look at each other. “I brought you lunch.”

“Thanks.” Dean opened the bag and smirked when he saw the burger, extra cheese and extra onions, lukewarm and soggy and greasy. It was perfect.

“Can I ask what happened?” 

“To the kitchen?” Dean asked, midchew. Cas nodded, still avoiding eye contact. “I tried cooking. First patty I burnt into a char puck. Second was undercooked and kinda slimy in the middle.” He licked his fingers and stared at the ceiling while he counted the next attempts. “Salty as the sea. Somehow managed to make it taste exactly like the mystery meat in that place. Mustard bottle exploded. The last one was good, but it was about the size of a meatball, because there was nothing left.” He shook his head. 

“I’m sure it will come back to you. It’s like… riding a bicycle?” Cas paused, unsure. 

Dean glanced at him sideways and smiled. “Yeah, that’s the right expression Cas. You’re probably right.” He took the new bottle of beer Cas offered, wondering when he’d drunk the last of his. Cas opened a bottle of his own, drinking in solidarity, not to get drunk. Dean doubted there was enough booze in the entire county to get the angel drunk. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Cas was staring straight ahead. There was a fragile peace here in the safe corner of the floor. Dean was thankful for it. He’d have time later to be scared and angry and worried at Cas. 

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you pray to me? I looked for you. But I have few contacts, not enough strength to intimidate Crowley, I’m still wanted in Heaven… I only knew you were alive because your death would have been sung on Angel Radio.” Words came spilling out of the angel, and Dean closed his eyes. He knew what Cas looked like, desperate and sad like on that bridge on the stroke of midnight, reaper blood dripping from his angel blade. “I tried hunting, but I failed at that. I would listen, so hard, ‘keeping my ears on’ to catch just a whisper of a prayer or…” Cas swallowed, voice breaking. “But there was nothing. And then… then I thought you didn’t want me to find you. That… that you’d lost faith in me.”

“Remember Purgatory?”

“Of course I remember. You prayed every night and you were angry I didn’t answer… Is that why? Were you angry? Are you angry that --”

“No Cas,” Dean interrupted, “I’m not angry. Not about that. I get it, you were keeping Leviathan away from us.” He sighed. “I know it sucked for you, hearing me and staying away. So this time I figured it would be worst, with your wings being so damaged. I thought… I thought I’d make you feel guilty that you couldn’t fly in. And even if you could find us, I didn’t want you storming the place and getting hurt. I didn’t know how much they had on the supernatural. I didn’t want to risk you.” 

He started picking at the label of the second bottle, ripping the thin paper to shreds. “So even when the withdrawal hit and the… the nothing clawed at me. I didn’t want you to worry or feel guilty or bad or... “ He stopped and nudged Cas, waiting until he met his gaze. “I didn’t pray to Billie either. She just… It got bad Cas. I think she just sensed that I would rather go with her than… than have them keep hurting Sammy that way. He won’t say, but with everything? It was probably worse for him.” 

Cas held the stare, like he was trying to convince himself that this was real, that he had his charges back. The front door of the bunker clanged open, startling them both.

“Do you want help with the dishes?”

Dean laughed. “Yeah Cas, that’d be nice. Get scrubbing, I’ll put things away.”


End file.
